


In Infinity or Darkness or Some Brighter Place

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: True Love or Something [21]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Car Accidents, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Found Family, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Allura/Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9517724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “I’m sorry, sir, but your brother has been in an accident.  He’s in ICU.”Intensive care unit.  Keith’s insides just froze.  There’s nuclear winter in the pit of his stomach and he can’t think straight.“Tell me everything,” he snarls into the phone.Shiro is in a car accident; while sitting with him at the hospital Keith reflects on his unusual childhood and the many ways we find or form love.





	

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOODNESS, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR KIND WORDS. THANK YOU. 
> 
> So here's the broganes angst fic I've been wrestling with for days. It is not proofread because it's super late here and I have to be awake at the crack of dawn and cannot look at this thing a minute longer. I hope it's okay. I'll come back through and fix any glaring errors I see tomorrow. 
> 
> Fun fact, I really waffled on which of the crew I wanted to drive Keith to the hospital. Hunk was a strong contender for a while there, but ultimately I picked Pidge because that's what my instincts were telling me to go with. Also, Pidge had some really fabulous moments in season 2 and that makes me happy. Also, she and Keith are both kind of adorably socially awkward and frankly, she seemed like a good person for comforting Keith.

**In Infinity or Darkness or Some Brighter Place**

            Keith is cursing at the stove and listening to the _les Miserables_ soundtrack when he gets the call.

            ‘ _At the end of the day you’re another day older – ‘_ the tinny voices sing from his laptop speakers as the phone shrieks from its cradle on the kitchen wall and vegetables sizzle in the pan.

            “Goddammit,” still holding the spatula in one hand, Keith leans over, and in an improbable feat of flexibility, liberates the phone.

            _‘And that’s all you can say for the life of the poor – ”_

“Keith Kogane, what,” he snaps into the speaker, prodding what might pass for a stir-fry if the viewer was both blind and had no sense of smell with the spatula.

            _‘It’s a struggle, it’s a war – ”_

“Mr. Kogane? This is Sacred Heart Hospital – ”

            Something starts to burn in the pan and Keith swears.

            _‘And there’s nothing that anyone’s giving_ – ”

            “I’m sorry, what? Sacred Heart? There isn’t a Sacred Heart nearby, what’s this about?”

            “Is everything okay, Mr. Kogane?”

            “Yeah – fuck, shit, uh – it’s fine, a little on fire, but fine. Uh. How are you?”

            _‘All the day standing about – ”_

            Keith shoves the frying pan off the burner and turns everything off. A bit of onion soaked in hot oil flies out and catches him on the wrist, he hisses in pain and throws it off.

            “I’m fine, Mr. Kogane,” the woman on the other end of the line sounds bemused, “Do you need emergency services?”

            “No,” Keith snarls, hissing again when he accidentally touches the hot sides of the frying pan, “No, I don’t. Who are you, what’s going on?”

            _‘What is it for?’_

            “You’re listed as the emergency contact for a Takashi Shirogane.”

            “Shiro? Yeah, that’s my brother.” Keith’s heart is doing something strange in his chest, it feels like it’s shrinking, or falling away, just fading back into nothingness like the Warner Brothers’ logo in old cartoons but in reverse.

            “I’m sorry, sir, but your brother has been in an accident. He’s in ICU.”

            Intensive care unit. Keith’s insides just froze. There’s nuclear winter in the pit of his stomach and he can’t think straight.

            _‘One day less to be living.’_

            He slams the laptop closed, cutting off the music.

            “Tell me everything,” he snarls into the phone.

…

            Keith’s first memory has Shiro in it. It’s vague and soft at the edges like paper that’s been sitting in a puddle for too many hours. All the print is gone from the page but the page itself is still there somehow, still holding on.

            There’s no context. He doesn’t know where they are or what their mom is doing; it’s very simple, really. He just remembers Shiro sitting on the floor, laughing as toddler Keith asks him why.

            “Why are the rocks red, Shiro?”

            “They’re special desert rocks.”

            “Why?”

            “Desert rocks are different than other rocks.”

            “Why?”

            “They’re red.”

            “Duh. But _why_?”

            Keith thinks that if he had to sum up the first twenty years of his life in one sentence it would be ‘But why, Shiro?’

            Why Shiro?

            Why, Shiro?

            Shiro, why?

            Yeah; Shiro. Why?

…

            Shiro was supposed to be driving down to his father’s house in Virginia for some family gathering this weekend. Keith had gotten out of going by virtue of no one in Shiro’s family understanding his job well enough to question whether or not he was actually working that weekend (Shiro knew, Shiro side-eyed him the entire time Keith was on the phone with Stella-the-stepmother, but Keith is a twenty-seven-year-old adult who does what he wants and what he wants is to not be included in this round of forced family bonding). It was petty, and dumb, and normally Keith would suck it up and go to these things just because it inexplicably makes Shiro happy to see his whole family all in one room. But Lance is off on a Community Center camping trip this weekend and won’t be able to come with him and Lance is about 50% of Keith’s impulse control and a 90% of his social filter (which, considering their combined social graces couldn’t fill a teaspoon, is definitely saying something). Plus he makes everything better just by being there. Keith doesn’t quite understand how Lance manages that.

            So Keith is risking life and limb cooking for himself and trying to enjoy this rare pocket of alone time when the phone rings.

            He gets off the phone, dumps the no-longer-actively-flaming remains of his dinner in the sink, pan and all, and runs for his car.

            It takes three or four? Was it four? Tries to get his key to do the thing with the lock and when Keith throws himself into the driver’s seat he almost forgets how driving works. He suddenly and inexplicably doubts his knowledge of the basic function of a motor vehicle. You put your hands on the wheel and your feet on the pedals, right? Right?

            His hands are shaking and the empty place in his stomach wants his mom. He wants his mom to be there, talking him through the steps, but she’s not and sometimes he can’t even remember her voice anymore and even when he does he’s never sure if he’s really remembering her or if he just has the handful of recordings he managed to save memorized.

            Is he breathing? He’s not sure.

            A tap on the window glass startles him and he finds himself staring at Pidge.

            “Hey, what’s going on? You look like shit.”

            “Do I?”

            “Yeah, you shouldn’t be driving. Get out.”

            Keith blinks. Yes he should be driving. “I have to go somewhere.”

            “Okay, I’ll drive, just get out, and maybe breathe. In and out, it’s easy.”

            Is it? Is it, Pidge?

            She side-eyes him and swears under her breath. “Seriously, dude, breathe. In and out, nice and easy, come on,” she’s looking at him, her golden brown eyes huge behind her glasses, holding his gaze, exaggerating her own breaths like she needs to show him how to do it. Maybe she does. “In through your nose and out through your mouth. In and out, in and out, like that, I think? Fuck, Hunk’s the one who’s good at panic attacks. Not like, having them, more coaching people through them. I’m waaaaay better at having them,” she laughs awkwardly.

            Keith blinks at her. He thinks he’s breathing again. Whatever he’s doing she’s managed to startle him into paying attention to her now instead of the internal screaming, so there’s that.

            “I need to go,” he tells her – his voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. It’s flat and dead somehow.

            “Okay, buddy,” she says, reassuring, maybe placating, “We’ll go, just no asphyxiating. I really don’t want to explain to Lance how his husband landed in the hospital.”

            The hospital…Keith needed to go to a hospital. “Sacred Heart,” he blurts, “I need to go there, it’s a hospital.”

            Pidge blinks, “Um, dude, I was kidding, are you okay?”

            “No, it’s Shiro, they called me and now I need to go there, I need to be there.”

            “Shit,” Pidge mutters under her breath, she’s gone ghost-white, “What happened? No, don’t answer that, get out, get in the passenger seat, gimme your keys; remember that breathing thing. Shit. What happened?”

            Keith does what he’s told blindly, trusting that Pidge’s instructions won’t steer him wrong. She’s taking this seriously, at least.

            She starts up the car as he’s clicking his seatbelt on and the contrasting sounds click-clunk away in his memory and for a brief moment he’s overwhelmed by the scent of hot metal and desert dust and his mother’s lavender shampoo.

            _“Driving’s easy, you’ve just gotta stay relaxed and focused. Got that, babydoll?”_

            And just like that it’s gone again and he’s twenty-seven again and this is his car, not his mother’s, and he’s not driving.

            “Car accident,” he says tersely, “They wouldn’t tell me more over the phone. He’s in ICU.”

            “Fuck. Okay, find the hospital on Google maps and guide me there.”

…

            _“We’re lost, babydoll.”_

“We’re not lost,” ten-year-old Keith scoffs in his memory. In the way of half-remembered scenes, the setting feels elastic, like there’s an element of unreality to the dimensions of the truck’s front seat. He remembers the colors – the dark dashboard, the sandy bleached-out smear of desert outside the window, dotted with clumpy crouching shrubs and scrub. But he can’t remember specific things, like which truck it was, the one with the stick shift or the newer model. Or which air freshener Mom had hung over the rearview mirror. And yet certain details shine through, like the fact that he’s clutching a copy of Dumas’ _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , and that Mom’s tape player/radio is duct-taped to the dash and playing an old Johnny Cash cassette. There’s something wrong with the tape, ‘Ring of Fire’ keeps buzzing and skipping the last line of the chorus.

            “We’re not lost,” Mom sounds decisive, but not like she’s right, more like she’s decided she’s right and will be right through sheer force of will.

            Keith sighs, “I’ll get the map.”

            “We don’t need a map, we’re not lost.”

            “Yeah, right,” Keith mutters under his breath as he digs through the mess of maps and napkins and field notes and random bits of nothing-things in the glove box. He doesn’t find the map he’s looking for so he closes it with a huff.

            “It’s fine, we’re not lost,” Mom says, breezy and self-assured and Keith resents it.

            “I’m hungry.”

            “There’s some power bars or Snickers or something in the glove box.”

            “I want carrots.”

            “Carrots?” his mom laughs, it sounds brittle, “Carrots? What, why?”

            Keith shrugs, suddenly sullen. He doesn’t know why he wants carrots; he just suddenly knows that if he eats one more protein bar, one more fucking _poptart_ he’s going to throw up. “I just want carrots.”

            “What the – Keith, just eat a protein bar. You don’t need carrots.”

            “Yeah, well, I want some. And maybe some apples. And broccoli. And spinach. And…and oranges! I want some goddamn oranges!”

            “ _Keith,_ ” his mother snaps, “That’s enough. What’s the deal? You’re a kid, you’re supposed to love this sugary stuff.”

            “Yeah, well, you’re a grownup, you’re supposed to make me eat the other stuff!” Keith snarks right back, “Because it’s good for me!” He’s not sure what he’s doing, yelling about fruits and veggies in the middle of nowhere, but it suddenly feels vitally important that he impress upon his mother just how essential good dietary choices are.

            “Well, we don’t have that stuff, so just…eat a power bar!” she huffs.

            “We’d have that stuff if Shiro was around.”

            “Well, he’s not.”

            Silence as Keith contemplates the empty desert and the glove box that’s full of stuff but no maps.

            “We’re lost, Mom.”

            “We are not.”

…

            “Keith, _Keith_ ,” Pidge is shaking his arm slightly. He blinks and looks up at her, not sure why she’s talking to him.

            “What?”

            “We’re in the parking lot, I don’t need you tell me to ‘turn left’.”

            “Oh.”

            They’re at the hospital now. The sign says Sacred Heart. Keith’s own heart is rattling his ribcage, trying to escape his chest. He wishes Lance were here. He wishes his Mom were here. He wishes…he wishes Shiro were here. Ironic.

            He blinks, “I guess I should go in. Thanks for the ride, Pidge.”

            “Uh-uh, no way am I leaving you like this, dude. You’re practically zombie-Keith right now. You require some adult supervision.”

            His lips tug up a bit at the corners, “You’re an adult?” he says, skeptical, a teasing tone. It doesn’t sound quite right.

            She smacks him on the arm, but lightly. “I’m gonna let that slide because you’re all freaked out, but there will be Consequences.”

            “Okay.”

            “Let’s go.”

            “Okay.”

…

            People think Shiro taught Keith how to throw a punch. He didn’t. Shiro taught him when to use his words, when to keep quiet and observe, when to not engage. Shiro taught him how _not_ to fight. If it wasn’t for Shiro, Keith wouldn’t have the quiet place in the core of him, the place he can retreat to when everything becomes too fast, too loud, too much.

            (Keith was raised in the desert and if there is one thing the desert does very well, it’s silence. He grew up pretending the red rocks were the surface of Mars and he was a galactic explorer, a solitary hero on an epic quest – and then he’d pause a moment to wonder if somewhere far away a little Martian boy was playing at being a galactic explorer too, but pretending his red rocks were Earth’s.)

            It was Mom who taught Keith how to fight. He remembers being young, maybe five and watching her in a bar – they’d stopped in the parking lot, she was going to get some food to go and ask for directions to the nearest campsite. Keith was supposed to wait in the car but Mom never remembered to engage the child safety locks so escaping was, well, child’s play. Keith had snuck in after her, using his height (or lack thereof) and speed to duck past patrons and avoid the eyes of bar employees.

            He found his mom, leaning on the bar; chatting with the bartender and now, twenty-two years later he doesn’t remember quite what happened. Maybe a person passed in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision, maybe he was at a bad angle; maybe it was all just too fast to follow. But suddenly, either way, there was a guy and he was right up next to Keith’s mom and getting way too close and…

            Something, whatever the something was in-between that Keith didn’t see.

            And then Mom was grabbing the guy’s wrist and twisting, stomping on his instep and kneeing him in the stomach. She spun the man around and shoved him chest-first at the bar. “Zookeeper,” she snapped at the bartender, “Control your monkeys.” She scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. She looked dangerous, slightly feral. “Anyone else? No?” And she left the guy leaning on the bar (maybe because he couldn’t stand up under his own power) and stalked out.

            “Did you get what you wanted?” Keith asked her as she strode past his hiding place, bringing her up short. He eyes widened in shock.

            “Keith.”

            “Did you get what you wanted?” he asked again.

            “No, not even close.”

            “Oh. Okay. Can you teach me how to beat people up like that?”

            She sighed, shoulders slumping, she looked tired and a little lost, like she wasn’t sure how she’d gotten here, like she wasn’t sure what to do next or how to get back to where she came from. “Sure, babydoll. Sure thing.”

…

            Keith listens to the catalogue of Shiro’s injuries, is as patient as the doctor is professional, barely responds as a nurse pushes past him to tend to something far away, beyond the patch of linoleum his feet have no intention of leaving. Pidge stands next to him, he thinks he can feel her eyes on the back of his head, full of worry but not sure how to change that feeling into action. He and Pidge are one and the same – comfort and the easy ways people touch and feel are alien to them. They aren’t the sort who connect easily.

            It makes Keith think of the plugs and cables used with the light fixtures at the theatre. How damned frustrating it is to get a Socapex cable to attach to the box. How strong the connection is once it’s made. How difficult it is to detach the damned things when it comes time to strike the lights and set.

            Pidge’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder blade. It’s the only spot of warmth on his whole body.

            “Concussion, fractured ribs, punctured lung – “

            Is the air getting thicker? Keith thinks it might be.

            “Whiplash, broken nose, fractured collarbone – ”  
            Pidge’s hand is warm. Keith really wants his mom. Or his husband. Or his brother.

            “We’re hopeful about his spine, it looks like there was only one herniated disc, no other serious damage.”

            “Is that everything?” Keith’s voice is remarkably steady.

            “Yes. We’re really very hopeful, Mr. Kogane. Your brother is on a ventilator for now, but he’s stable and we’re hoping for a full recovery.”

            “You’re a scientist.”

            The doctor blinks at him, “Y-es.”

            “You should do more than hope.”

            The doctor gives him a look that might be exasperation or pity or some grotesque amalgamation of the two. “Sometimes hope the best we can do, Mr. Kogane.”

            “The we should do better.”

            “Keith,” and that’s Pidge, “shut up and stop scaring the man with the chart.”

            Keith shuts up but he doesn’t like it.

…

            _“Mom, why does Shiro have a dad and I don’t?”_ Keith started asking when he was about five or maybe four and he didn’t stop until he was around twelve and decided that fuck that guy, it didn’t matter. He’d still think it sometimes, to himself, late at night, the thoughts looping around and around in his head, a ribbon of unknowing.

            Why does Shiro have a dad?

            Why don’t I?

            The most his mom ever told him about his father was a quiet night when he was maybe eight, or seven? He couldn’t be sure, in hindsight. He was just young, he knew that much. Young enough to fit in her arms comfortably, to cuddle close to her when the night was cold and the wind whistling through the cracks where the windows of their trailer didn’t quiet seal right sounded more sinister than usual.

            Their trailer was small, there was only one bed, but it was big enough to fit the both of them and he was young enough it wasn’t weird. The wind had been restless that night, shrieking through the buttes and cliffs, rattling the sides of the trailer like a bunch of fingers rat-tap-tapping away at them. Mom had an arm thrown protectively over his shoulders as she whispered old stories about Trickster Coyote in his ear, chasing away the monsters outside with legends old as time.

            Mom had either run out of stories or out of wakefulness, she was half-asleep and drowsing beside him, her rich voice slurred to soft, sleepy breaths. Keith was still wide awake, though, staring out into the dark from beneath his mother’s arm, thinking about Coyotes older than mankind, about the creation of the universe, the idea that humankind’s destiny was such a fickle thing that a few tricks and cheats could change it one way or another.

            “What was my father like?” he found himself saying. ‘Dad’ didn’t seem right for this moment – half mystic, half imagined.

            “He was tall. Taller than me.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. You have his eyes.”

            “No I don’t.”

            His mom chuckled at his stubbornness, “Well you don’t have my eyes; do you?”

            He didn’t. His mom’s eyes were the color of honey or whiskey. A golden-brown that shifted and changed as the light hit them. When she was mad they seemed to catch flame and glow like headlights slicing through the night.

            “I don’t want his eyes.”

            “Tough.” His mom sighed, gathering him close. He can hear her heartbeat, almost. More like he can hear the idea of it. “He had a scar through his eyebrow, right there,” she measures the mark out against Keith’s face, the phantom trail of his father’s scar. “And dark hair. And an accent.”

            “An accent?”

            “Yeah. I used to imitate it to tease him. He’d just shake his head at me. And sometimes he’d laugh. Not often, but when he did it was good. Nice.”

            “Was he ever mean to you?”

            “No. Why?”

            “Trying to figure it out.”

            “Sometimes things just don’t play out like you think they will, babydoll. Sometimes people can’t stay. It’s not because anyone is mean or bad. It just is.”

            “Do you miss him?”

            “Sometimes.”

            “A lot?”

            “Maybe.”

            “Did you love him?”

            She didn’t answer and for a strange moment Keith was sure she’d fallen asleep. But then her voice came again, unexpected, “I love you, kiddo. And Shiro. And my work. That’s enough.”

            He didn’t point out she didn’t answer his question. He was pretty sure the real answer was yes. She just didn’t want to say it.

…

            Keith’s feet stall out a few feet from Shiro’s room. He doesn’t want to go in there, he doesn’t want to suddenly be fourteen years old and visiting his half-dead brother again. He doesn’t want to be fifteen and getting another call about another car accident.

            It was a storm. She was driving in a storm and –

            Lighting doesn’t strike twice.

            Why?

            Because once is enough.

            He doesn’t want to and his body listens to his brain and just…stops moving. Pidge runs into him from behind – “Ow, motherfu – seriously, dude?” But he doesn’t flinch, although the sharp frames of her glasses digging into his back hurt.

            “Hey,” she bumps her fist off of the meat of his shoulder, coming around to face him, “Hey, hello in there, what’s going on?”

            He blinks, or thinks he does. “I don’t want to go in there.” He sounds both very young and very old to his ears, not quite right.

            “But…it’s Shiro,” she doesn’t get it, but she’s trying, “Don’t you want to be there for Shiro?”

            “I…” Keith’s teeth are working on the words, chewing at them before spitting them out, “I’ve _been_ there, I’ve done this all before. This is just a…just a rerun.”

            “What? You aren’t making any sense.”

            “I’ve done the hospital and I’ve done the car accident and _I’ve been through all this before_ , don’t you get it?” he’s not talking to Pidge, he’s talking to something else now, some higher power that won’t stop fucking with his life, “Are they out of ideas? Are they just remixing old shit over and over and over again? What’s the lesson I’m supposed to learn, huh? What’s the moral of the fucking story, can we skip to the end where I’m alone again because the middle fucking sucks and I’ve already been here and I _know_.”

            “Keith,” she has a hand on each of his shoulders and she’s digging her fingers in, “Focus on me, breathe, stop…just stop scaring me, please? I don’t know how to help you, okay? I’m not Hunk and I’m not Lance and I’m really, really not Shiro, but you’re scaring me and I want to help you, I do. Just, _please._ ”

            Stop scaring me.

            Fuck, he’s scared Pidge.

            He shakes his head and, without thinking about it, without even realizing he’s doing it, wraps her in a hug. She makes a squeaky-toy sound of surprise, but eventually hugs back.

            “You’re such a mess,” she sighs, patting his head tiredly, “But you’re my friend, and I want to help you.”

            And Pidge is the sister he never had, she’s family, and maybe Keith is scaring her because he’s scared too.

            “I’m sorry, Pidge.”

            “None of that apology shit, your brother’s in the fucking hospital. You’re allowed to be a mess.”

            “Thanks, Pidge.”

            “Now go visit Shiro. I’m gonna call Lance and pray whatever wilderness he’s found has cell service.”  

            “Okay.”

…

            Mom had a lot of boyfriends, but they never lasted. The longest relationship Keith could remember her having was ten months long – she met the guy the week after Shiro went back to his dad and they broke up the week before Shiro got back from summer camp. Keith was seven when it happened – six when it started, and he was mad at his brother and he was mad at his mom and he hated her boyfriend and wished his stupid brother would just come back already so they’d break up.

            “Mom, why don’t you want Shiro to know about your boyfriends?” he remembers asking one day. They were in a trailer again, well, outside the trailer, and the boyfriend was setting something up while Mom made the fire. Keith was talking loud, trying to make sure the boyfriend heard them.

            Mom shot him a look, “Your brother knows I date.”

            “Yeah, but you don’t want him to know.”

            “Your brother has seen me date, remember that time with the restaurant? He was supposed to be watching you?”

            Keith snorts, “That’s dating. That’s not _boyfriends_. You don’t want him to know about your boyfriends.”

            “That’s not true.”

            His mother had an incredible talent for ignoring things she didn’t want to believe. “Quit lying, Mom,” Keith scoffed, seven years old and all attitude, “Are you embarrassed or something? Do you not want him to know about when you and that guy want to have ‘alone time’ and I have to leave the trailer?”

            His mom’s face flushed scarlet, “ _Keith,_ ” she hissed.

            “Cuz you and Takashi fight about me. I know you do.” He does, he’d heard them before, Shiro asking all these questions about what they did when he went away – like maybe Keith should be doing more than roaming around the desert and sometimes going to school.

            “This conversation is over.”

            “Is it about his dad?”

            “Keith.”

            “Is it about mine?”

            “Keith.”

            “Is it about me? Are you embarrassed that I happened and that Takashi’s dad knows?”

            She went very still. Her body frozen, like it had turned to stone. The only things moving were her hands, shaking slightly, and her hair, curling in the wind. “This conversation is _over_ ,” she said again, setting down whatever she was holding and stalking back into the trailer, slamming the door in her wake.

            The boyfriend sauntered over, “What was that about, sport?”

            Keith gave him a flat look. The boyfriend only spoke to him when he wanted something. Typically when he wanted to know something about Mom. “You know I don’t like you, right?” Keith said, matter-of-fact.

            The boyfriend shrugged, “Looks like it’s not up to you.”

            Keith glared at him, tucking his knees under his chin, and wrapping his arms around his shins, “When summer comes, my brother’s coming back and then you’ll finally go away,” he muttered under his breath.

            “We’ll see,” was all the boyfriend said before walking off, able to safely ignore Keith again.

            And then Shiro had to go to stupid _summer camp_ and he was a whole month late getting back and Keith tried so, so hard to hate him. But he couldn’t. Because when Shiro came back everything was better.

…

            Keith tries to sit in the visitor’s chair but it’s too hard and too far away and the fabric on the back is scratchy through his shirt – he forgot to grab his jacket when they left the car. It’s cold in the hospital and he can hear the AC whistle through the vents. It reminds him of desert nights. He wonders what Afghanistan’s desert looks like – if it looks the same as home.

            He gets up and moves to the foot of Shiro’s bed, sitting cross-legged with his back to the footboard. The hook where the chart hangs off of it digs into his spine but he doesn’t really mind. The discomfort reminds him that this is now, not then. He watches the machine breathe for Shiro and tries to do what Pidge told him, measure his breaths, one-two-three-in, one-two-three-out.

            There’s something almost meditative about sitting here. He takes his shoes off so he can fold his legs more comfortably and crosses his arms over his chest. He likes feeling them there, the solid bands of his bones over his sternum. He can feel them on the exhale.

            Pidge is outside the room, he can see her through the window. She’s on the phone, trying to get ahold of people, explain what’s happening. Keith pulls his phone out of his pocket and runs his fingers over the screen. He knows what he’ll see if he unlocks it – the last text he sent.

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

Shiro in hospital

Sacred Heart Hospital

Car wreck on the way to VA

Fuck

Let me know when you get this?

            Each text is attended by a little red notification saying ‘message failed to send’. Wherever Lance is, he doesn’t have cell service. Keith stares at the blank screen as if he can coerce a cell tower into shifting geographic locations through sheer force of will.

            He unlocks the phone and taps out a new text, even though he knows it’s doomed to be lost in a sea of data.

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

I need you.

…

            “You know what’s really miraculous, babydoll?” his mom would say sometimes. Keith remembers a night when he was maybe twelve or thirteen – after Shiro went off to war and something shifted in their family, like they were a glacier and the cracks that had been forming for millennia had finally given way to environmental pressure. Like the landscape of them had been irrevocably altered. It was summer, for a given value of summer, and he and his mom were tent camping. She had to monitor some equipment out past where the trailer could go and Keith didn’t see the point in staying in the trailer all alone for nights on end.

            It was quiet, the kind of quiet that paradoxically reminds a person just how loud the desert actually was. How it was the opposite of empty, really. Nocturnal animals called, and the scrub-brush whispered as insects chittered.

            “What, Mom?” Keith yawned. It was late, coming up on three am and he couldn’t decide if he wanted to go to sleep or not. There was something beautiful about this place, this time, like they weren’t really here, or maybe like nothing else was. It felt powerful and strange, and for a few strange seconds Keith could convince himself that here the world was infinite and he could feel the earth as it hurtled through the universe, that he could feel the planet going _somewhere._

            His mom reached over and tucked a stray corner of blanket around his shoulders, reaching over to run her knuckles over his cheek like she used to when he was a little kid.

            _“How’d I ever make a kid like you, huh?”_ she’d say, _“You and your brother, you’re something special.”_

            She tugged gently on a stray piece of his hair before tucking it behind his ear and drawing away and looking up at the stars again. “The vastness of everything,” she said, wonder in her voice, “And the precision. The fact that out there are forces, massive, colossal forces beyond our comprehension, reshaping everything minute by minute, second by second. That everything is made of something else, that a hundred billion million years ago you, me, everything here was just…stardust. And atoms. What are we made of; babydoll? Just bits of…galactic lint that somehow came together, met the right kinds of other galactic lint in the right place and the right time and somehow became you. Became me. And maybe someday a billion million years from now the bits of us will be stars again. And it’ll all happen one more time, somewhere far, far away.”

            “That is pretty miraculous,” Keith agreed, then grinned quietly to himself, “I can’t wait to tell Shiro he’s galactic lint.”

            His mom laughed, throwing her head back, baring her throat to the stars, surrendering to the universe, “You do that, you do that.”

…

            Keith stares at his brother, “We’re just galactic lint, Shiro. That’s what Mom said. It’s a miracle that we’re even here. And maybe that made her hopeful but it just makes me fucking scared.”

            His brother doesn’t respond. His monitors beep along in time with his heart and the re-inflation of his lungs. Keith’s phone vibrates.

            Text failed to send.

            Fuck.

            He runs his hands through his hair and tries to ground himself but it’s not working very well. He wonders how Mom did it for so long alone. Maybe that was why she dated that dick for ten months; maybe she just wanted another piece of galactic lint to cling to.

…

            Mom could fix just about anything. She could break just about anything too, so they just about always broke even on the equipment front. If the truck was running well then one of her scanners was going to give out on them. If the scanners were all doing fine then the truck was making suspicious coughing noises. They spent four months in a shack in the middle of the desert a mile outside of the tiniest, go-nowhere-est town Keith had ever seen because Mom gave up on nursing the truck along in favor of her sensor array.

            She wouldn’t admit that was why they were there, though.

            “I think this is a fine place. Don’t you want to spend some time in one place? You seem to like it when we stick around somewhere.”

            Keith, eleven years old and a skeptic, had given her a doubting look, “You just know if you fix the truck a scanner’s going to break.”

            “That makes no sense.”

            “And yet…”

            “I’m not bowing to some superstition.”

            “Anecdotal evidence makes it more than a superstition, Mom, and you are.”

            “I am not.”

            And that was that.

            Keith was honestly impressed with his mother’s power over reality. Through sheer stubbornness she somehow made whatever she had into whatever she wanted.

            It was a gift.

            Keith was still skeptical about the shack. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice one of the scanners to the machine gods if it meant a functioning truck.

…

            Pidge ducked back in, “I called Hunk, he said he’ll hold down the fort as long as you need him to and he’s thinking of you and Shiro and that he’s giving you a ‘mental hug’.”

            “Hold down the fort?” Keith blinks at her.

            “Check in on Laz and Ruby. You know, the cats who live with you and are utterly dependent on humans for all their resources? Hunk says he’ll feed them and take care of the litterbox.”

            “Ruby catches birds.”

            “Huh?”

            “I said Ruby catches birds. She wouldn’t starve.”

            “Good to know?”

            Keith has no idea why he’s telling her this, but he feels like now that the conversation has started he has to say something, fill up the room with words. “Laz is a spoiled princess, though. She won’t eat anything but that fancy stuff Lance buys. She turned down bologna the other day. What kind of carnivore turns down bologna?”

            “One with taste buds, I assume,” Pidge says dryly.

            Keith shakes his head, “But I bet Ruby would look out for her. You know, if they had to.”

            “Had to what?”

            “Be in the wilderness.”

            “Okay, dude, your cats are not going to be ‘in the wilderness’, Hunk is going to take care of them. I’m pretty sure you’re projecting right now, so I’m just gonna roll with it, but let it be known that I repeatedly reminded you that wilderness did not feature in the cat conversation.”

            Keith picks at the hems of his jeans. They’re ragged; the denim is bleached out from years of wear and washing. He finds himself oddly fascinated by his hands. They’re smaller than Lance’s, the fingers are shorter and blunter, the bones oddly fine and delicate under the skin. They’re littered with scars old and new, small things picked up over a lifetime of accidents and incidents. There are callouses on the fingers and palms. He remembers with an odd jolt being very small, standing in the circle of Shiro’s crossed legs, holding his hand up to his brother’s palm, wondering at the difference, the contrast. Everything about the memory is fuzzy and pastel, like a watercolor painting with too much water, bleeding color in every direction.

            “Sorry, Pidge, you can keep going. I was just…I don’t know.”

            “Hey, it’s okay.” She puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes it gently, “I’m worried about Shiro too. Not like you are, but…you know.”

            “Yeah. Who else did you call?”

            “Allura, I figured she’d want to know since she and Shiro are…whatever they’re doing.”

            Keith snorts, the sound is wet “Half-assedly dating? Pretending not to date? Lance has started to refer to Allura as ‘Shiro’s Not-Girlfriend’ and Shiro as ‘Allura’s Not-Boyfriend’.”

            Pidge chuckles roughly, “Yeah, she’s on her way here. She sounded really broken up on the phone, but, in a classy Allura-way. Coran’s giving her a ride.”

            Keith nods. Seems reasonable.

            “And I tried to call Lance but he’s…”

            “Not in cell service range, I know.”

            “I’m sorry, Keith.”

            “I know.”

            There’s nothing else that can be done. They sit together and watch Shiro breathe.

…

            Keith learned to drive when he was eleven or twelve. He’s not sure which. It was after Shiro had joined the military, though, because it was summer but he still wasn’t around. Keith hadn’t known what to do with himself as May slid past – he couldn’t really fathom ‘summer’ without Shiro. Summer had never meant much to him as a season – it was just a time when the desert was hotter and there were more kids around the trailer parks and hotels they’d stop at.

            His mom must have thought he was moping or something, or maybe she was just bored. She’d climbed up to the roof of their trailer, where he’d been lying sprawled, a paperback held above his face, blocking out the sun, when suddenly she appeared in his line of vision, snatching the book out of his hands despite his protests.

            “Come on, we’re learning how to drive,” she’d said, and marched off with his book still in her hands.

            Keith considered just continuing to lie on the roof just to show her she wasn’t the boss of him, but a minute in he was hot and uncomfortable and bored enough to follow her. She knew all his weaknesses.

            The truck’s cab was hot and the AC was wheezing and Keith was momentarily hopeful that he wouldn’t be able to reach the pedals and his lunatic mother would take this as a sign from god that he wasn’t meant to learn how to drive until it was actually legal. But the driver’s seat was adjustable and his mother had never been tall anyway. He could reach the pedals just fine.

            They’d taken it slow at first, lurching across dirt roads, tires coughing up dust behind them as his mother told him how to do things out of order and backwards. They were already rolling forward before she explained how breaking worked and they were turning before it crossed her mind to explain turn signals and checking your blind spots. The truck was big and awkward and every crunch of gravel beneath the tires had Keith convinced that he’d just hit something, broke something, fucked up this driving thing so badly he’d never be allowed behind the wheel ever again. But his mom was laughing and signing along to the radio, pausing every few minutes to shout some advice as the wind roared through the cab from the window she’d opened. Her dark hair whirled around her head, spanning like a battle flag in the breeze. And then they’d reached a long flat stretch of nowhere road with nothing and no one for miles and his mother leaned over and whispered, “Floor it.”

            Before he could think too much about it, eleven-maybe-twelve-year-old Keith slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and they shot forward with a roar. His mom whooped for joy and a shout of defiant exultation ripped its way out of his throat and they blazed down the road screaming their rebellion as they went.

…

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

I’m pretty sure you’re never going to get these

But I like pretending

So I’m messaging you

I miss you

I miss Shiro

I miss my fucking mom

It’s not fair

It’s not fucking fair

I hate it when people are all ‘why me?’

‘Why’d this shitty thing happen to ME?’

Like somehow, idk, they deserve happiness

But…

Why me?

Why’d my mom die?

Why didn’t my dad give a shit?

Why is Shiro in the hospital?

Fuck, I should call his dad

His dad gives a shit

Did no one call him?

I should stop texting you and call

I don’t know what I’m doing

Get back here

Come back from you stupid camping trip

Be here

I need you here.

Nevermind

Don’t listen to me

I’m glad you’re not getting these

Fuck

This is pathetic.

…

            When Shiro returned to the states after getting blown up, they were not the first people called. Keith knows because they were late getting to the hospital. They’d driven all day and all night to get there, barely sleeping barely eating, Keith driving (he was fourteen and had never heard of a learner’s permit and probably wasn’t old enough for one anyway) when his mom was too tired or worked up. Her eyes were cradled by dark circles and her hair was slicked back from her face in a tight ponytail. It was the most orderly he’d ever seen it. He was pretty sure the only reason it wasn’t trying to escape was because she hadn’t washed it since they got the news.

            Mom had almost started a fight in a gas station when the guy behind the counter told her she didn’t have enough cash for the hot pockets she was trying to buy (they’d scrounged loose change from the trucks’ every crack and crevice). She looked _this close_ to hauling him across the counter and into a back-alley fight but then she’d looked at the spare change on the counter, run her fingers over every penny and all the fight went out of her all at once.

            Keith was glad he’d found an extra quarter in his jacket pocket of he thinks he might have seen his mother cry that day.

            As it was, they got their hot pockets and thrown out of the gas station at the same time.

            But they still got to the hospital late. Shiro’s father and stepmother and stepsisters were all there already and Shiro never knew it but that was the one and only time Stella Jones-Shirogane and Diana Kogane met. It was just so…strange and wrong to see them together, to see Mom in this sanitized world in the first place. She seemed to tower in her wildness, in her feral eyes and battered leather jacket and fitted jeans. She was all lean muscle and sharp edges and flashing gold eyes. She looked alien here and Keith for the first time wondered if it was him and his mom who were from another planet, another world.

            Stella was soft and curved and pastel and everything Diana Kogane was not. She was taller than Keith’s mom but she seemed shorter, the kind of woman who adjusts her physical presence to fit her surroundings. She did belong here. She was the perfect picture of the fretful family-member-of-a-patient. Mom looked like she might break something if she touched it. Or she might break if it touched her. That was Mom. She didn’t adjust to her surroundings. She didn’t adapt to survive; she didn’t adapt, period. She simply was and it was as painful to watch, as it was astounding.

            “ _Ms._ Kogane.”

            “Who are you?”

            “I’m Mrs. Jones-Shirogane.”           

            Keith didn’t like the way Shiro’s stepmother emphasized the names.

            “So he remarried.” Mom knew he had, Shiro had told her. Keith watched, trying to decipher the game she was playing. He caught the slightest twitch as it danced across Stella’s face and he got it. Ah. That was it.

            “Yes,” she said tersely.

            “Huh,” Mom said, “Interesting.” She did not elaborate.

            “Indeed.”

            “Where’s my son, _Mrs._ Jones-Shirogane?”

            Stella sniffed, Keith could see her trying to regain control of the situation, could see it slipping away from her, “His father is with him right now.”

            “Where. Is. My. Son?”

            “Right there, isn’t he?” Stella said coldly. Keith could feel as well as see her pointing at him.

            He leveled a tired glare her direction, “Quit being a bitch and tell us where my brother is.”

            Her eyes widened and her mouth popped open, a small red spot on her soft, round face.

            Mom scoffed, “I’ll find out myself. Keith. Behave.”

            Keith shrugged, “I am behaving. I’m just not behaving in a polite manner.”

            His mom snorted, halfway to a laugh, “Fair enough.”

            And they marched past Stella and to the information desk.

Keith never told Shiro about the incident. It didn’t seem relevant. It would just upset him. It would…it was embarrassing. Keith had behaved badly; he knew that. He knew Shiro would have been disappointed in him for his rudeness, no matter what Mom said. Stella cared about Shiro, she was being protective, she was worried, and Mom…Mom didn’t have the greatest track record when it came to _being_ Shiro’s mom. And Keith shouldn’t have said that to her.

But dammit, that was his brother in the hospital. One of the most important people in his life and he wasn’t going to let Stella and Mom and their power games get in the way. He needed to be there, to see the heart monitor and know Shiro was alive.

Because right now he couldn’t quite believe it, right now all he had was a phone call and phone calls could mean anything or nothing at all and all he wanted was to see that heart monitor and _know_.

…

Keith knows Allura’s arrived when he hears a soft “Oh,” from the doorway. He turns his head and sees her standing there. She’s still wearing scrubs. It’s almost funny. Her wearing scrubs to visit someone in the hospital. He wonders if anyone’s called her ‘nurse’ or tried to hand her a chart. He wonders if these are some of the scrubs that Lance embroidered ‘Bitch, please, I’m a doctor’ on the collar. Lance had done it to a number of Allura’s scrubs, always in thread a similar enough color to the scrubs themselves that a casual observer couldn’t see it, but enough that Allura knew it was there. She said it made it easier to put up with uppity interns who thought their fresh-of-the-press MDs allowed them to talk down to other staffers.

Shiro has a pair of scrubs with ‘nothing scares me, I’m a freaking nurse’ embroidered along the collar. They were part of his last Christmas gift. He loves them.

Allura snatches the chart off the back of the bed. The hook scrapes some of the skin off Keith’s back and he twitches involuntarily. She lightly touches his back, between the shoulder blades, murmuring, “Sorry, darling,” sounding even more posh and British than usual.

He twists around to watch her skim the chart, he mouth moving along with the words as she reads them. Her hands are clamped tight around the clipboard and she looks rock-steady. It’s only the slight sheen on her eyes, the rapid blinks, the slight sniffle, that give her away.

“How’s it look, Allura?” Pidge asks. Keith is glad she does because he’s not sure he can make words right now.

Allura sighs, a heavy, weighted exhale. “He’ll live but it’ll be rough going the next few weeks as he recovers.” She replaces the chart, one hand coming up to rest on Shiro’s ankle on his other side, opposite where Keith’s sitting. She runs her hand up and down Shiro’s calf, soothing or fretful, it’s hard to tell. “Poor love,” she murmurs, blinking back the moisture in her eyes.

“You should tell him,” Keith says, faltering when she turns the full weight of her attention on him. Her eyes are huge; she looks lost. Keith isn’t sure what to do with a lost Allura. He’s known plenty of lost people – Lance has the sense of direction of a concussed dodo, Matt’s entire personality is summed up by that one time he drunk-dialed Pidge and said “not all who wander are lost – except for me, I’m totally lost, please come get me,” Hunk’s about as good with directions as Lance, and Shiro himself has gotten them stranded weird places just by reading a map upside down. Keith’s mom was lost the entire time he knew her.  

But Allura…she’s never lost. She always knows where she’s going. Except…maybe not now.

“Just…Allura…running out of time sucks,” Keith finishes lamely, “Don’t let it happen again.”

She nods; a slight, weary, smile on her face, there’s a tiredness to her eyes and a softness to her face that’s nothing like Stella’s.

“I know, I’ve been very stupid about this whole thing, haven’t I?”

            Keith shakes his head, “No. You’ve both been…”

            “Dumb,” Pidge inserts.

            “Cautious,” Keith corrects, “Frankly, you’re both a little messed-up and way too careful.”

            Allura nods. She squeezes Shiro’s ankle where her hand rests. “I know. Thank you, Keith.”

            Keith shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention and allows Allura to join them in their silent vigil.

…

            “Mommy, what’s love?” Keith was too young to properly remember this memory, which is too bad because he wishes he knew what his mother’s answer was. If she had one. He wishes he remembered if he had actually asked the question or just thought it.

…

**To: Waking Up in Vegas**

Allura’s here

I think this has been some kind of…

Wake up call, maybe?

Idk but at least she and Shiro can sort out their shit

I miss you

I’ve been thinking

There’s a lot of time to do that in hospitals

Thinking, I mean.

About my mom

I wish I had some epiphany

But I didn’t

Just…

Love’s fucking complicated

And it’s hard and it hurts

But without it we’re just galactic lint

And I don’t want to be a space dust-bunny

So glad you’re not getting any of these

I just sound dumb

 

            The texts were taking forever to send, stacking up like a ten-car pileup and Keith couldn’t help but imagine some vast data highway. He knew what would happen. Eventually his phone would figure out that Lance’s was out of range and would reject the texts, telling him on no uncertain terms that his ‘messages could not be delivered’. He turned off his phone screen and leaned back against the headboard and watched Allura watch Shiro. Pidge left to get food at some point and came back with sandwiches and firm instructions from Hunk.

            “Hunk says you need to refuel, so you’d better eat or the big guy will be all disappointed at me.”

            Keith was biting into a disappointing ham and cheese sandwich when his phone buzzed on his thigh. He blinked around the sandwich, setting the dry bread and slimy meat down to unlock his phone.

 

**To: KEEEEEITH**

Holy fuck, babe,

Pidge left a message on the ancient campsite phone

Just got it

I’m on my way.

Love you.

Love you so much.

I’m so sorry I’m running late.  
I’ll be there in, fuck, an hour?

Maybe?

Ok, driving now, bye

Love you

 

            Keith closes his phone and finds himself blinking tears out of his eyes. “Lance got the message you left on the campsite’s phone, Pidge,” he says, “He’s on his way.”

            She smiles back at him, it’s tired and small but there, “Good.”

…

            Keith thinks he might have seen his father at his mom’s funeral. When the guests were dispersing, her friends one by one stopping by to shake Shiro’s hand and tell him, “Your mother spoke so highly of you, you’re really very impressive,” while Shirogane senior looked on uncomfortably, Keith wandered. He skirted the crowd, trying to avoid eye contact and dodge condolences; he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want their soft touches and sad eyes. He came to a stop in the no-man’s land between the grave and the crowd, watching as a man detached from the masses, striding over to the headstone in workman’s boots. Dark hair, square jaw, stubble, a leather jacket and jeans. He paused in front of the grave, toes at the edge of the pit. Keith thought there might be something more than the usual sadness to the man’s shoulders.

            There was a scar through his eyebrow.

            He saluted her grave, said a few words that escaped Keith’s ears, lost to time and distance, and walked away.

            Keith didn’t follow him.

            He wonders what might have happened if he did.

            But he turned back to Shiro, who was looking pale and a little unsteady on his feet. Still not 100% after Afghanistan, after what happened the year before. Keith ran to his side and chased off the latest hand-shaker. And together he and his brother walked back to their motel.

…

            When Lance gets there he’s a _mess._ An actual mess. There’s dirt on his face and maybe a leaf in his hair.

            “Is that a twig in your hair?” is the first thing Keith says when he sees him because Keith is insensitive sometimes.

            “We went hiking.”

            “You got lost in the woods.”

            “Oh, definitely.”

            Lance knows when he’s lost. That’s how he always makes it home. He knows when he needs to start looking for the way back.

            “You were out of cell service,” Keith explains as Lance starts to babble.

            “I’m so sorry, babe, so fucking sorry, I _ran,_ actually _ran_ to the car when I got the message. Well, actually, I ran to the cabins to find the other adult chaperones and begged them to watch the kids for the rest of the weekend because my brother-in-law was in the hospital. But then I ran to the car, and I’m so, so, sorry, are you okay? Is Shiro okay? Fuck, no, he’s on a ventilator; he’s not okay. Is it bad to mention the ventilator? Is that rude? What are the rules here?” Lance just looks so panicked, face flushed, hair disarrayed. He’s talking with his hands too much, gesticulations gone wild, crappy hospital lights glinting off the ring on his finger, and Keith feels inexplicably _safe._

            “Shut up and come over here.”

            Lance shuts up. Mostly. “Okay,” he says and comes over to stand beside where Keith’s sitting, “What now?”

            Keith rolls his eyes, “Now I would like a hug, jerk. I’ve had a really shitty day.” And dammit, now his eyes are watering. Fuck it all. Keith doesn’t cry, not ever. It was beaten out of him by the foster system; it was dried out of him by the desert sun. He doesn’t cry. But he presses his face into his husband’s shoulder and lets someone else be strong and in control for five seconds and lets the tears fall.

            And Lance’s arms are around him and Lance’s voice is whispering soothing nothings in his ear and a Lance’s hand is carding through his hair. Keith is safe. Everything is going to be fine, and maybe he can believe it for now.

            Hope is enough.

…

**_Two Weeks Later…_ **

**To: Lance**

Please come get your husband

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

????

**To: Lance**

Retrieve. Your. Idiot.

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

??????????????????

**To: Lance**

Keith is fussing over Shiro

Major mother-henning

It’s disturbing

It’s stressing them both out

Keith is so obsessive about Shiro’s recovery

And Shiro is so worried about Keith’s mental stability

They’re basically fussing over each other

And I get it, I do…

But Shiro needs to rest and Keith needs a Xanex

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

…crap

Again?

I’ll be right there

Btw, how’s Shiro doing?

**To: Lance**

Really well, actually

Well…considering

He’ll make a full recovery

He’s already mostly off the prescription painkillers

He’s more mobile

He’s getting a bit stir-crazy, really

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

And ~you AND Shiro~????

**To: Lance**

Hush, you

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

YOU’VE BEEN STAYING AT HIS HOUSE

FOR TWO WEEKS

**To: Lance**

TO HELP HIM OUT

HE’S AN INVALID

FOR NOW

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

And you loooooooove him.

**To: Lance**

Just come get the love of your life

Before he and Shiro give each other heart failure

**To: Allura, goddess of everything**

On my way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the song 'Astronauts' by Rachel Platten, which is my new Voltron anthem.


End file.
